


Shut Up, Kaner: A Love Story

by missmollyetc



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how we roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up, Kaner: A Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://impertinence.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**impertinence**](http://impertinence.dreamwidth.org/). Set during the 2011 Stanley Cup Playoffs.

It's the playoff run, and they're fucking losing, but Pat's not drunk; he just wishes he was. He settles for the way exhaustion makes the caffeine in his coffee misfire, twitching his muscles in random patterns. Pat bites his lip, and his left leg jitters. His heel slaps the carpeting.

They can't even leave the fucking hotel, and Johnny won't let them sleep, but he won't let Pat out of his fucking reach either, damn it. The Vancouver fans would take them apart. He and Johnny can see them on the TV, having the time of their fucking lives in neat little fucking soundbites. They keep switching to shots of Kesler's fucking smug face.

A mug thuds down on the nightstand between their two beds, and Pat looks up in time to see Johnny jackknife off his own mattress. He marches up to the hotel's TV, and jabs his finger on the power button hard enough to rock the TV on its base. The Canucks' celebration cuts out mid-yell, and Pat's ears pop in the sudden quiet.

Pat's fingers wiggle against his own mug; the coffee dregs have a skin of powdered milk on them. "Fuck man, that's what the remote's for, right?" he asks.

He's so fucking tired of this shit. Johnny's been winding himself up into a heart-attack since they'd met, and now they're losing and...fuck it. He can hear Johnny's breath dragging itself in and out of his lungs, deeper and deeper as his shoulders move up his neck.

"I'm turning out the fucking light, you caveman," he says.

Johnny turns around, and Pat's spine shocks itself straight. Johnny's face is pale, no expression but a twitching muscle high on his cheek. His lower lip is chewed raw.

"What? You wanna trash the place before I hit the switch?" Pat asks. "That'll show 'em."

"Fuck you, Kaner," Johnny says, blowing air through his nose like a loose bull.

"No, fuck you, I was watching that."

Johnny snorts. "Right, 'cause we both love watching assholes gloat, right?"

Pat groans. "Jesus Christ, do we have to go through this again?"

Johnny crosses his arms over his chest, and that fucking muscle in his cheek goes into overdrive. "Yeah, maybe we do," he says, biting the ends off his words. "Maybe I don't think it's too much of a pain to want to win a fucking hockey game once in awhile, okay? Maybe I--"

"Am a raging douchebag? 'Cause I can get behind that," Pat cuts in, scooting up his bed to drop his coffee mug next to Johnny's on the nightstand.

"Fuck you, pussy. Jesus, you're getting your fucking shoes on the bedspread," Johnny says.

Pat rolls his eyes. "It's not my bed, is it?"

Johnny makes a rumbling, strangled sound, and grips the back of his head with both hands, eyes squeezing shut. Pat can see the muscles in Johnny's standing out beneath his skin. He presses his hand against his stomach, digging the heel of his palm into the spot beneath his navel where the heat is starting to build.

"I can't even fucking...fuck this, fuck every single bit of this fucking town," Johnny says, and Pat feels the nails of his left hand digging into his palm. "Why can't we...I..."

Johnny's knuckles turn white as he scratches his fingers up and down his hair. There's buzzing noise building up in the back of Pat's skull, like the goal alarm.

"Why can't you fucking what, Johnny?" Pat asks. "Why can't we win?"

Johnny's eyes pop open, but his head stays down, chin tucked into his neck. Pat lets his knees fall open, digging his shoes into the bedspread, and drops his hand between his thighs.

"Maybe why can't you stop sucking long enough to be effective? Captain?" Pat smiles, and runs his thumb up the inner seam of his jeans.

Johnny licks his bottom lip, and swallows. "Stop it, Kaner," he says.

"No, no, I wanna hear this," Pat says, lifting his hips a bit, letting his arm fall against his crotch. "I wanna hear about how our great Captain Serious can't fucking think his way out of a two game slump in a playoff series we weren't even supposed to be in."

"Patrick."

"Any ideas? Maybe we should ask Sharpy. Or Duncs! He looks like he has an idea. A pretty big idea."

Johnny's mouth snaps shut, and he's on the bed before Pat even has the time to snatch a quick breath. His knees land in the space between Pat's legs, and the mattress springs bounce him up right into Johnny's hands.

"You think you're any better? You fucking think you're any better?" Johnny snarls, dragging him close enough that the only thing holding Pat up is his left arm. His right is trapped between their bodies, wrist pushed up against Johnny's cock.

Pat ducks his head, pushes up, and presses his mouth against Johnny's, right where he's bitten through the skin. Johnny's stuck, hands in Pat's shirt and legs bracketed by Pat's knees, and he freezes, body locked up tighter than a drum. Pat holds firm, keeps it dry, and all the muscles Johnny's got tensed above him start to shake apart. Johnny drops, knocking Pat's head into the headboard, and grinds their mouths together, so hard that Pat can feel teeth behind Johnny's lips. He moans, and Johnny bites him for making noise.

"No more fucking...I hate this, I hate this," Johnny mumbles against his jaw.

Pat nods, and feels the headboard swaying behind him. Johnny bites his chin, and yanks them down the bed until Pat's head is on a pillow, and the wall is just a dull throb in the back of his skull. His legs spread and wrap around Johnny's back as Johnny slides his teeth up Pat's jaw and across his cheek to bite the corner of his mouth, slick and messy and open. His knuckles press into Pat's ribs, a warning that Pat doesn't need. He'll be quiet, he'll be so quiet or else Johnny will stop, and Pat can't handle it when Johnny ignores him.

Instead, he reaches out with his free hand and grips the back of Johnny's head, right over the dip between Johnny's skull and his spine. Johnny's hips buck, driving Pat's other hand back into his own crotch. Pat wriggles his trapped wrist, and Johnny's groans into Pat's mouth. Pat tilts his head, closing his eyes as Johnny's tongue lashes out past his teeth, dragging across the top of Pat's mouth. He shakes, muscles pushing and pulling even as they grip Johnny's more tightly against Pat's body. He's hard—Johnny feels so good against him, hot and stiff, and like he could suck the life out of him through Pat's mouth.

Johnny's hands drag down Pat's front, and yank Pat's hands out between them. He holds it against the bed, thumb digging into the pressure point at Pat's wrist until the muscles stop screaming. He lets go, and Pat leaves his arm there, a little numb, and sighs as Johnny pulls off his mouth.

"I'm not gonna fuck you," Johnny says, and Pat almost--almost--whines, but he's fallen for that trick before, and fuck Johnny if he thinks he'll get Pat again.

Pat licks his lips, pokes his tongue into the hot spots at the corners of his mouth where Johnny bit down. He might be bruised tomorrow, maybe the guys'll notice. Pat doesn't give a flying fuck. He wants to moan so bad, wants to beg, but he won't and Johnny will give him everything he wants. He waits, inhaling through his nose, while Johnny watches him, and starts to rock. Their jeans scrape against each other, just this side of painful.

"I wanna fucking tie you up and ride you, understand?" Johnny says, pressing his lips to Pat's before breaking away. "I wanna keep you on my bed all fucking night, and all I want is your mouth. I want it open and red and just for me, you got that? Your mouth does what I want it to."

The urge to laugh is almost as strong as the one to start moaning loud enough to get the neighbors complaining. What the fuck does Johnny think Pat's...fucking everything is? What the hell does he think Pat gets up to when Johnny's not around? Fucking weirdo dumbass. Johnny can't even tie his fucking shoes, but Jesus that's hot.

Pat opens his mouth, and waggles his tongue. Johnny rolls his eyes.

"You fucking douche," he mutters, but he presses back in, sucking on Pat's tongue until Pat's shaking. His hands yank up on Pat's lower back, holding him so he can't get away, and Pat tightens his legs around Johnny's waist. They'll fucking win next time.


End file.
